


Hell and paradise (right here on Earth)

by TempestGael



Series: Hell and paradise (right here on Earth) [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Unexplained Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 08:56:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19971397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestGael/pseuds/TempestGael
Summary: After 6000 years of nonsense from upstairs and downstairs, Crowley and Aziraphale hoped things would be a little more settled after their brush with Armageddon.  However, since when have things ever been simple?  After a strange accident Aziraphale is having the time of his life; Crowley just has to make sure he doesn't discorporate while he rediscovers the pleasures and delights of life on Earth.(A little piece of fluffy, H/C nonsense that has basically come out of nowhere; featuring amnesiac!Aziraphale, protective!exasperated!Crowley, and an ill-timed pedestrian crossing in Soho.)





	Hell and paradise (right here on Earth)

**Author's Note:**

> My pitiful contribution to Good Omens fandom. I have absolutely no idea where it came from, other than combining two things: (1) the moment in Elf when Buddy is hit by a taxi in New York, and (2) The Good Place, when Janet must re-learn all her knowledge. The bizarre situation is my excuse for our ineffable loves to be more than a little out of character.
> 
> There is no explanation for why Aziraphale has this strange 'amnesia'; to be honest I don't know myself. I do know it's nothing malevolent - it could have been his own fault! - and will eventually be resolved happily. He's pretty content, and apart from keeping this naive Aziraphale from killing/discorporating himself Crowley is pretty okay, albeit a concerned snek, too. So just enjoy what started out as an attempt at humor and by the end turned into something my H/C-loving heart desired.
> 
> This is a standalone for now, but maybe I'll eventually piece the rest of this together in my head and 'on paper'. =P

Had Crowley imagined life post-Armageddon (or, at least, near-Armageddon), this was not what he'd have imagined. Slumming it in London, partaking of the same old pleasures? Certainly. Maintaining a semblance of the Arrangement - temptations and miracles, lending a hand to Aziraphale and having a hand lent when needed? Well, he certainly wouldn't have admitted it to head office, but that wasn't really a concern anymore, was it? The post-Armageddon life Crowley hadn't really bothered to imagine would, he imagined, have been quite similar to the years preceding the whole Antichrist nonsense. In other words, it would have been...tolerable. Aziraphale would say 'nice', but Crowley wouldn't. Out loud.

"Crowley! My - oh I'm terribly sorry, please excuse me; I - Crowley!"

This would not have entered into Crowley's wildest imaginings. 

Crowley never really stopped sensing Aziraphale, not for the six thousand years they'd been orbiting one another, and he suspected the opposite was true as well. It was a small comfort to his frazzled nerves - and to his corporation's heart - but didn't prevent Crowley arming Aziraphale with Crowley's smartphone, open to Google maps (Crowley wasn't a complete idiot) and a strict thirty-minute time limit (Aziraphale was very easily distracted). They'd discovered early on in this still-new reality of theirs that Aziraphale was endlessly entertained by the small blue dot in the app representing their progress along an assigned path, so at least he wouldn't lose his way. All Crowley had to do was wait (lurk) nearby, until Aziraphale retraced his steps with nibbles in tow.

He focused on the angel's chaotic, benign energy as it drew closer, listened to the tone of voice. Aziraphale was pleased. Mission accomplished, then. He'd be feeling proud of himself for navigating this small part of Soho without Crowley physically over his shoulder, as had been the case the past several days. Crowley decided to prolong the moment a bit, taking a few extra blessed moments to pretend he hadn't heard Aziraphale's calls. He continued to slouch slowly along the pavement, feigning an interest in shop window displays. He leaned over, hands clasped behind his back, to study ridiculously overpriced men's watches and on a whim miracled himself a rather fetching, yet indiscreet, Rolex.

This quest had been jump-started by the slice of mille-feuille Crowley had picked up two days ago as a distraction. Aziraphale had been all questions - _Someone_ , so many _questions_ \- and Crowley'd needed a break. He was inordinately fond of Aziraphale, but honestly. Two minutes' peace. Anyway, the whole thing was worth it (something else he'd never admit aloud) to see the angel's expression when he'd tasted the pastry for the first time, eyes wide; that familiar whole-body wiggle of delight which went miles toward reassuring Crowley that his Aziraphale was still there, concealed beneath this strangely blank slate. However, it also meant that Aziraphale had been chattering nonstop about the mille-feuille and other yet-untasted sweets ever since. This developed into the idea that Aziraphale would go to the patisserie on his own to select something sweet for both of them, and another (for some reason fascinating) paper cup of takeaway milky tea, which further evolved into nearly an hour spent at the pedestrian crossing nearest the bookshop, teaching Aziraphale how to negotiate traffic signals.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale's slightly-off, yet still comfortingly familiar presence was drawing closer still. Crowley turned his attention a little more fully to his approach; the angel was rebounding off the occasional passerby as he navigated the busy pavement. In those brief nanoseconds of contact, the Londoners and tourists registered surprise, concern...fear? But no time to dwell on that particular oddity, as a hand closed on Crowley's sleeve and tugged gently. "Crowley, you will never believe - honestly! You will never believe what has just transpired." 

Crowley fixed a mildly interested expression on his face. This Aziraphale had existed for less than a week; he'd been a crumpled heap among a pile of books in the back room of the shop who had abruptly sat up, ramrod-straight, nearly stopping Crowley's corporation’s heart for the second time in as many minutes. His familiar features had been arranged into something blank and aloof, but he'd leaned close to Crowley for a long moment and studied him with slate-opaque eyes, until his expression was suffused with happiness and he'd declared, pleased as punch, "I know you!"

(The 'knowing' was a little sketchy; once reminded of Crowley's name Aziraphale had made a brave effort of feigning a deep understanding of their history and rapport, but apart from some deep-seeded trust in Crowley he seemed to possess, Crowley suspected Aziraphale was merely imprinting on him like a duckling.)

But knowing this Aziraphale - mysteriously restored to what Crowley was calling 'factory settings' - what had ‘just transpired’ could have been anything from seeing an insect on the pavement to seeing the second coming of Christ. Crowley was learning to keep his expectations of Aziraphale’s epiphanies and discoveries rather low. "What's up, angel?" he asked, casual, before he turned and he registered everything - and really, it was _actually everything_ \- that was wrong.

There was a large brown stain on the angel's prized overcoat. Tea? Aziraphale's curls were a riotous mass, reaching wildly in all directions; a box from the patisserie was held, crumpled, beneath his right arm. His eyes were too wide, luminous in his too-pale face. He was, bizarrely, smiling. Crowley's lungs seized. "What -" Angels? Demons? _What the actual fuck -_

Aziraphale was weaving slightly on his feet. "I," he announced proudly, "have been struck by a motor car!"

Crowley's jaw fell open before he could stop it. "You what."

"Yes!" Aziraphale bounced once on the balls of his feet, then had to abruptly side-step to catch himself when his corporation listed to the right. Crowley felt like he was looking down at himself from a very high altitude. "I was crossing the street - I was paying attention, Crowley," he promised; "I pressed the button and waited for the green man to appear. The humans began to cross and I did not do so until I was certain they were all crossing safely, although the red hand was still illuminated -"

"You were hit by a car?" Crowley was rather amazed that his voice was as level as it was, albeit torn from a painfully dry throat. "Where? Are you hurt?"

Aziraphale turned and pointed vaguely in the direction from which he'd come, swaying. His left wrist was at a terribly _wrong_ angle. "Oh yes, I believe so. I feel very strange. Very...unpleasant." The hair at the back of his head, Crowley could see now, was matted with blood. Crowley finally forced his own limbs from their strange paralysis, and seized Aziraphale's upper arm. The patisserie box fell to the ground. "Aziraphale, we need to -"

"Oh, the cakes!"

"Sir! Sir!" A woman was approaching at a run, the heels of her pumps clicking authoritatively on the pavement. Crowley vaguely admired her stability on the shoes at such a pace; it wasn't something he'd ever particularly managed without looking like an ostrich with an inner-ear disorder picking up speed. As she drew up beside them, gaze darting, panicked, between Aziraphale and Crowley, Crowley guided the angel to a discreetly-miracled bench and pushed him down. Aziraphale watched Crowley's face, his own expression a study in bewilderment. The three of them must have looked ridiculous to any outsider who bothered to look. The woman crouched beside them, patting down fly-aways from her hairstyle with one distracted hand. "Sir, the ambulance - you could have internal injuries, and -"

"It's fine," Crowley snapped. "I'm a doctor," he added when the woman showed no indication she was going to give up.

"The ambulance was called," she insisted. "I don't know how he's still - the lorry -"

_Shit shit shit shit_ \- a lorry? Couldn't have been a shitty fucking SmartCar, could it? This was going to be all over social media, papers, the works. Crowley certainly had a project for the rest of the day. For the time being, though, he summoned the wherewithal to reach out to anyone in range, removing the memory of a strangely blood-stained man weaving through the streets of Soho. The woman rose with a tiny, distracted smile, checked her watch, and realized she had somewhere else to be. For a quick fix it would have to do; the rest - eye witnesses, ambulance crew and dispatch, CCTV - would have to wait. His priority for the moment was trying to touch the back of his bleeding head, going paler by the minute. "Up you get." Looping one arm around Aziraphale's waist, Crowley focused on where they needed to go, took one step forward -

\- and they found themselves back in the book shop. Aziraphale gasped quietly, the drag through space knocking him for a loop; Crowley summoned the old settee from the back room close enough to guide him into a controlled fall onto the cushions. "Oh - the cakes," Aziraphale repeated mournfully. 

"Least of our worries, angel." Crowley leaned around to get a better look at the back of his head. There was a deep, ugly gash, and it was still bleeding steadily. Crowley pressed his fingers to the wound and had to ignore the guilty clench in his gut when Aziraphale made a small, hurt noise. "Sorry." It took only a moment; when he removed his hand the gash was gone; the blood wasn't, but that could be taken care of the human way. "Let's see the rest."

Aziraphale leaned away as much as he could, cradling his injured wrist in the other hand. "I don't like this."

"Getting run down by a lorry? I wonder why," Crowley snapped before he could stop himself. _If he'd been discorporated..._ "Give me your arm." Aziraphale hesitated, eyes radiating betrayal. _If he'd been discorporated..._ Crowley sighed, forced away his agitation, and softened his tone as much as he could while the possibilities of this whole mess swirled around in the back of his mind. _If he'd been discorporated would he ever have been able to come back?_ "Your wrist is broken. It'll be hurting you and I need to heal it."

It felt like a very long time before Aziraphale, slowly, offered up his injured wrist. Crowley pressed it gently between both hands and willed the bones to knit, damaged ligaments and muscle to heal, the swelling to diminish. Lines of pain at the corners of Aziraphale's eyes eased a little more, warmth seeping back into his expression, and Crowley couldn't resist pressing a kiss to the inside of the healed wrist. 

Aziraphale's cheeks were streaked with pink; Crowley one hundred percent refused to be charmed or smitten. "Humans are very kind," Aziraphale offered shyly. "Like you."

Crowley decided to let that one slide. "Mmm?" He sought out other injuries - cracked and bruised ribs, bruised lung, ruptured spleen, sprained knee, various lacerations. Most of the injuries were focused on the left side of Aziraphale's corporation, which spoke of the initial impact, but the head injury and surface injuries were more than likely caused when he'd hit the ground hard. Crowley was silently thankful that his Aziraphale - suppressed or hidden - still seemed to be able to protect himself to an extent. Injuries could be healed; post-Armageddon they'd both suspected discorporation would be much more complicated than it used to be.

"They were very helpful. Terribly concerned. The pilot of the motor car was using very bad language at first, but he was kind as well. I feel positively terrible for the state of his vehicle."

_Probably nothing compared to the state of their nerves when you got up and walked away_ , Crowley didn't say. He let Aziraphale go on as he healed him, let him describe how people had stopped traffic, had placed a rolled-up coat under his head, insisted he not worry about the tea which had exploded all over his coat - "Though I kept telling them, Crowley, that I had only thirty minutes and I was going to be late meeting you. I saved the cakes, but then...I suppose I didn't." He then became fixated on Crowley's mobile, which he seemed to have left behind, and could Crowley forgive him? At that, Crowley couldn't bear the pleading eyes any longer. He reached up, cupping Aziraphale's face in his hands, and pressed a kiss first to his forehead, then to his lips. 

"Aziraphale. Shut up." The angel went fetchingly pink, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with delight. Crowley rose and offered him a hand. "Bath's waiting," he said. "You can clean up while I go make sure you don't end up on the six o'clock news across the bloody country."

Aziraphale's mouth made a perfect, concerned 'o'. He nodded slowly, though obviously did not at all understand why he might end up in such a position. In the small bathroom Crowley ensured he was safely ensconced, and miracled up a cup of tea and a slice of chocolate gateau to keep him company. "Need anything else before I go?"

"No thank you. You'll be back?"

Crowley smiled. "'Course. Soon as I can. But angel - for Someone's sake, don't drown, or choke, or slip on the floor until then. Give me at least a few hours' reprieve."


End file.
